The Ghost of Coldwater Canyon
by IcyWaters
Summary: Still fuming from the pitch bath, Capitán Monastario devises a new scheme to capture his nemesis, but an old Indian legend and superstitious sergeant may throw a wrench in his plans. Takes place between the episodes "Garcia's Secret Mission" and "Double Trouble for Zorro." Based on the Walt Disney Zorro series.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: This story is based upon characters appearing in the Walt Disney Zorro television series. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made. I don't own 'em, I'm just a fan wanting to keep the spirit of a favorite show alive.

Author's note: This story takes place between the episodes "Garcia's Secret Mission" and "Double Trouble for Zorro." Special thanks to miXiZ for her feedback and proofreading.

* * *

**The Ghost of Coldwater Canyon**

**Chapter 1  
"The Problem with Pitch"**

Pistols in hand and sabers drawn, the lancers surrounded the neglected hut. The faintest of creaks and scrapes caused Sergeant Garcia to wince and he gestured for his men to keep quiet. With the four privates in place, he pushed his hat back on his head and pressed his ear to the front door, mindful of the sharp splinters protruding from the rough plank of wood.

Garcia strained to hear inside over his excited breaths, at last detecting the slightest rustling. Straightening his bulky frame to his full height, he spied Private Sanchez creeping closer and waved a warning not to give away their position. The last thing Garcia needed was for something to go wrong; he was growing tired of being on the receiving end of the capitán's temper. Sanchez nodded and whispered in his superior's ear. The sergeant's face lit up with a wide smile.

Quickly cutting a path to the commandante, who remained astride his white horse, Garcia paused to readjust his hat under the bright sunshine. "He is in there, mi Capitán, I am certain of it. I heard noises and Private Sanchez saw movement through the rear window. It is dark inside, but he swears it was black."

"We have him now." Capitán Monastario licked his lips, savoring his moment of triumph as he cradled his pistol in hand. "I have you covered, Sergeant. Drag him out dead or alive."

Garcia rejoined his men. "You are surrounded, Señor Zorro. Come out with your hands up." His craned his neck and shrugged when silence greeted his demand. "Please?"

"Baboso," Monastario called out. "Don't just stand there. Go in and get him!"

"You heard the commandante." Led by the sergeant throwing his shoulder into the door, the soldiers charged the ramshackle hut. Bursting in, black shapes assailed them from all directions.

"Aieee!" Garcia cried, raising his arms to protect his face. A deafening mix of grating caws, flapping wings and the shouts of his men reverberated in the confined space. "Retreat, lancers, retreat!" Tripping over their own feet in haste, a flurry of uniforms fled the structure in a cloud of feathers as dozens of crows took flight.

In the chaos, errant pistols discharged sending their mounts scattering.

"Babosos! Idiotas! Get those horses!" Monastario tucked his pistol into its holster, resisting the temptation to shoot the fat sergeant, who took off after his chestnut. "Not you, Garcia." Groaning at the spectacle of the lancers giving chase, he pressed his palm to his forehead while waiting for the sheepish buffoon to approach.

After spitting out a feather, Garcia peered upward. "Zorro is not in there."

"I figured that, Sergeant. Does your incompetence know no bounds? It is bad enough you are afraid of your own shadow, but now you are afraid of harmless birds?"

"They are not harmless, mi Capitán. The crows," Garcia pointed behind him, "they attacked us and pecked at our faces. They are mean ones. We must have disturbed a nest. It was also dark in there with dust and cobwebs everywhere." To emphasize his plight, he pulled a clump of webbing from his sleeve.

Monastario groaned again. "Considering it is the peak of the afternoon, I doubt it was as dark as you exaggerate. It would not surprise me if Zorro arranged for this fiasco. At this very moment, he is probably sitting in those hills laughing at us." His blue eyes narrowed. "Speaking of which, what is this please business?"

"My mother taught me to say please. She expected proper manners from her son."

A low growl escaped the capitán's throat. "Zorro is a dangerous enemy of our king. The army is not polite to traitors. Next time, Sergeant, you order him out under threat of death. If I hear you asking him please once more, I will assign you to a post in the middle of the Mojave Desert—and there are no taverns in the Mojave Desert."

"Sí, mi Commandante, you have told me."

Monastario dismounted, thrust the reins at Garcia and went to inspect the Indian hut for himself. Taking a seat on a flat rock, the sergeant began plucking feathers and webs from his clothes. When he finished the task, he gazed off into the distance wondering if the fox indeed was watching them. The masked man could be hidden anywhere amongst the brush and boulders in the foothills.

He only hoped Zorro took pity on them today. Garcia was not in the mood to scrub pitch. Two weeks after the messy incident and he still found sticky tar stuck in unmentionable crevices. As he reflected on that miserable day, his confusion deepened.

The lancers all feared the worst, expecting Monastario to erupt like a volcano and make their lives miserable. They waited for orders to comb every inch of California until they found the menace, yet the capitán was oddly calm. Well, after his initial outburst he was calm.

Monastario barely mentioned Zorro. He was the most agreeable he had ever been.

Following the first of many serene days in the cuartel, Private Ibarra suggested they toss the commandante in the pitch lake on a regular basis, eliciting a round of hearty laughter. When the serenity continued, they considered it seriously. Upon further thought, Garcia decided it was probably a bad idea.

Then out of the blue, the capitán ordered him and four privates out of bed shortly after dawn to set out on this expedition. Beginning with the San Gabriel foothills, they pushed west, searching every nook and cranny. Garcia wondered if Zorro played another trick on the commandante, sparking the abrupt change in mood—but then the commandante had always been moody.

Since thinking only served to confuse him more, Garcia focused on his rumbling stomach instead.

That's when Monastario emerged from the hut and slumped next to him on the rock. "Nothing. No one has lived there for months, if not years."

"May I ask the commandante why we out here?"

"All men in the district—young and old—have tried on the costume, yet not one of them was Zorro. I would recognize him in an instant once he dons the mask. We have identified every black stallion on every rancho, yet my sources tell me they are accounted for when Zorro rides."

Garcia frowned. "I still do not understand."

"Zorro does not simply vanish into thin air. He must house that animal and its tack somewhere, feed him and exercise him. What better place than a location long forgotten? Where no one would bother to look?"

"That makes sense."

"Of course it makes sense, Baboso."

Despite the abrasive tone, Garcia grinned. It was good to have things back to normal; he never imagined he would miss being called a baboso. He cheerfully picked a cobweb from his commanding officer's shoulder when the lancers returned with the five horses in tow. Once they mounted up, Monastario resumed the hunt.

Three abandoned dwellings and two work sheds later—thankfully free of merciless crows—they ventured into a cave. Garcia said a silent prayer to the heavens above that a bear did not call it home. Again, they pressed on. Along the way, Monastario called attention to patches of prickly pear cacti, thickets of poison ivy and bustling beehives when he wasn't turning off the road to investigate hiding spots behind boulders.

Garcia nodded each time the commandante spoke, but his thoughts drifted to his parched throat and empty belly. He had not eaten since the rushed breakfast; the few pieces of fruit and handful of nuts hardly constituted a proper lunch.

With the sun still beating down on him, Garcia wiped his sleeve over his forehead. The last threat of frost passed almost a month ago and the afternoons grew increasingly warm. As much as he hated to, he had no choice but to drink from his canteen. Instead of sipping delicious wine in the cool confines of the tavern, he was stuck drinking water.

Water.

The distant sound of rushing water caused Sergeant Garcia's stomach to churn. He clutched his belly with one hand and swallowed hard. Sneaking a furtive glance to his side, he breathed a small sigh of relief that the commandante did not seem to take notice of his discomfort. He could almost hear Monastario berating him for his peculiar habit of becoming seasick on dry land as the ground began spinning beneath his horse.

The detachment continued riding toward the source of the terrible noise, Garcia fighting a losing battle with the waves in his stomach. A damp, muddy scent tickled his nose. His cheeks puffed out and he was afraid of becoming sick when Monastario ordered them to halt and pointed ahead.

"Sergeant, what is that?"

Garcia surveyed the landscape in pure confusion. Beyond the river that blocked their path, dry hills and brush spanned as far as he could see. He knew whatever answer he gave would be wrong. "A wash?"

"What is in the wash?"

Still confused, Garcia bit his lower lip. "Water?"

"Very good, Sergeant. Why is there water in the wash?"

"The dry creek beds fill with rain. In the spring, they also fill from the melting snow in the mountains. Since it has not rained recently, this must be from the snow in the Santa Monica Mountains."

"Judging by the green hue on your chubby cheeks, you did not know the dry creeks were running full. Otherwise, you would have made clumsy attempts to steer me on a different path. This is why Zorro eludes us, Sergeant. He is better acquainted with the terrain and uses it to his advantage. That is how he tricked you into jumping into the pitch lake."

"But, mi Capitán, you were in the lead—"

"Silence!"

Garcia frowned, realizing he said the wrong thing again. He could not figure it out. Everything sounded so good in his head, but sounded so bad when it left his mouth.

Monastario glared at his second-in-command. "How is it you have been stationed in Los Angeles for over half your military career, yet you remain oblivious to annual occurrences?"

"How am I to know when it gets warm in the mountains? You do not send the patrols there."

"That is enough from you, Sergeant. It amazes me Zorro has not tricked you into diving into prickly pears or set a swarm of bees on you."

Realization dawned on Garcia, his seasickness momentarily forgotten. "Ahh, that is why you pointed them out, you wanted to help us. Gracias, mi Capitán, gracias."

Monastario threw his head back and stared helplessly at the sky. "Delgado, Ibarra, survey a mile of the stream to the east for places to cross. Ortega, Sanchez, survey the same distance to the west." Once the privates were out of earshot, he turned his horse around so he was face to face with Garcia. "Exactly what do you think we are doing today?"

"Trying to catch Zorro?"

"It is not to give you a leisurely tour of the countryside. The garrison's coffers are at an all time low. Spain is fighting rebellions, neglecting to send needed supplies. Our payroll is behind schedule—"

"Sí, I know."

"Do you understand how embarrassing it was to submit a request for emergency funds to cover the damages from that pitch bath? My superiors demanded a full expenditure report. Twelve uniforms, including boots, along with pistols, rifles, sabers, saddles, tack—they are a complete loss. Then we had to replace the gate."

"The lancers and I were going to scrub the 'Z' off."

"If you hadn't noticed, Sergeant, pitch stains. It would always be there taunting me. I still cannot wrap my head around the fact that bandit managed to paint a giant 'Z' on it in the middle of the day and not one lancer saw him."

Garcia shrugged. "The gate was closed, mi Capitán, so—"

The sharp glare shut him up.

Suddenly, Garcia's brow crinkled. "There were only eight lancers when we jumped in the pitch lake."

"The other four in my report barely covered the cost of repairing the official carriage. Tell me, Sergeant, would you inform headquarters that a bandit duped the king's lancers into hauling pitch in a carriage that may be used by the governor and viceroy?"

"No," Garcia croaked.

"You may yet have some brains in that empty skull."

"Gracias, mi Capitán." In that moment, Garcia breathed a sigh of relief that the lancers decided not to toss their commandante into the pitch lake. He might really end up in the Mojave Desert then, provided Monastario did not shoot him first.

Quiet enveloped the two as they waited for the privates. Garcia's gaze traced to the waves in the stream and his eyes rolled back in his skull. Clutching his belly, he relaxed when the lancers reported no safe places to cross. "Are we returning to the cuartel now?"

Monastario ignored him. "Lancers, press on."

And so they did. As the sun began its descent on the horizon, they finally stopped in the Santa Monica foothills. The capitán chose to camp in Coldwater Canyon. Steep cliffs rose on either side, casting long silhouettes at the bottom of the chasm. Breezes howled in the long corridor. The horses' hoofs echoed off the walls.

Garcia gulped when he spied glowing eyes in the shadows.

Scruffy trees, large rocks and brush covered most of the ground, save for the narrow trail, but they located a cleared section for their campsite. "Sergeant, take Delgado and Ibarra and gather firewood. Ortega, tend to the horses." Monastario tossed a saddlebag to Sanchez. "Prepare supper."

On firm, dry ground, away from streams with the last vestiges of sunlight still visible, Garcia did not mind the task so much, but his stomach rebelled. "Can we not go to the cuartel? Don Diego invited me to dinner at the tavern."

"De la Vega?" Monastario arched an eyebrow. "This is another peculiarity I do not understand. Diego de la Vega is young, wealthy and reasonably attractive. Why does he spend his evenings with a fat, slovenly sergeant rather than a pretty señorita?"

Garcia pressed his lips together. "I am big, that is all. All Garcias are big." Patting his belly to show it the commandante meant no harm by the remark, he added, "Don Diego is my friend. It is not unusual for friends to have dinner together."

Snorting, Monastario pivoted and left them to gather firewood.

As they selected sticks, Ibarra nudged the sergeant. "Do you know where we are?"

"Coldwater Canyon," Garcia replied.

Ibarra paled. "Sí, this is where the massacre happened fifty years ago."

Delgado came closer and whispered, "That's right. It is said the dead Indians haunt this canyon."

Garcia swallowed hard. "Haunt? As in ghosts?"

"You have not heard the tales?" Ibarra asked.

"N–No," Garcia managed to utter.

"We should not be here at night," Delgado said. "My papá was a soldier stationed to Los Angeles before I was born. He once told me of the time he discovered two dead lancers in this very canyon who had not reported in after a patrol. The doctor examined the bodies and declared they died of fright."

Garcia's eyes went wide. "You can actually die of fright?"

"That is what the doctor said," Delgado replied. "No marks or wounds, but they were dead."

Ibarra shivered. "The ghosts must have killed them for revenge."

"They are led by the Great Chief," Delgado said. "He vowed to kill all soldiers who trespass."

"Ghosts? Revenge? Killings?" Garcia shook his head. "I do not like this."

An eerie song echoed in the canyon, causing the trio to jump. Ibarra recovered first and forced a weak laugh. "It is only a nightingale, not a ghost."

"Atención!" The lancers straightened. Monastario marched to stand nose to nose with Garcia. "I have had it with this nonsense. If I hear so much as one more word about ghosts, phantoms, specters, ghouls or banshees—face or no face, head or no head—all of you will be transferred to the Mojave Desert."

Garcia whimpered. "Banshees?"

"I warn you, Sergeant."

"Sí, mi Capitán, and there are no taverns in the Mojave Desert." Garcia saluted and watched Monastario stalk away from the corner of his eye before leaning in closer to the privates and whispering, "The commandante must like me a little. He keeps threatening to transfer me, but I am still here."

"Let's just hope we're here come morning," Delgado replied, leaving an ominous feel in the air.

After collecting firewood and eating supper, Ortega and Ibarra took first watch. Sanchez and Delgado hit the bedrolls so they would be fresh-eyed when it came time to take over. Garcia parked next to the fire alert to every sound, from howling coyotes to hooting owls. He flinched when Monastario tapped him on the shoulder and motioned for him to follow.

They sat on a fallen log a short distance from the campsite.

"Since you are my second-in-command, Sergeant, there is a matter of importance we need to discuss. The Presidio de Santa Barbara is sending us a small reserve to settle our debts from the pitch incident. It is scheduled to arrive tomorrow night."

"Ahh, so that is why the commandante is eager to catch Zorro."

"The masked menace would love to get his grubby fingers on it, stealing it out from beneath my nose. He thrives on trying to humiliate my authority at every turn."

"That is not hard—" Garcia cleared his throat, grasping his blunder as the words rolled off his tongue. "I mean that is very hard since the commandante is smarter than the fox. He must be jealous."

Monastario growled, but let it slide. "Capitán Rendón is going to place the chest on a wagon belonging to some travelers on route to our pueblo, telling them it is regular supplies or such. Zorro should not bother with it, but you are to keep sharp watch for this wagon."

Garcia nodded sharply. "Sí, mi Capitán, I will not let you down."

"Good, I will hold you to that. If Zorro should get wind of this plan, I trust you to collect the reward for his capture." Monastario stood and patted the sergeant on the arm. "Let us get some sleep."

As they settled under the covers, a coyote's wail surrounded them. Garcia bolted upright.

"Do not look so frightened, Sergeant." Monastario pushed up on his elbows and grinned. "This is a mutually beneficial situation. The coyotes should keep the ghosts away and the ghosts should stop the coyotes from making a hearty meal of you."

Teeth chattering, Garcia rested his head against the pillow and pulled the blanket to his chin. Whistling winds swirled, rustling the leaves like a phantom playing tricks. Clouds drifted in front of the moon, cutting off the faint light. Each noise echoed off the canyon walls. Sanchez's snoring rumbled like thunder. Eyes frozen open, he prayed the capitán was right.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Ghost of Coldwater Canyon**

**Chapter 2  
"The Great Chief"**

Riding toward Los Angeles, Diego de la Vega kept his Palomino to a steady trot. He turned to his friend after the approaching group of vaqueros passed them on the road. "Capitán Monastario is too quiet. Combined with his mysterious overnight outing, I am convinced he is up to something."

Bernardo rolled his hand over his stomach in a sweeping arc.

"Sí, for Sergeant Garcia to miss a free meal, it must be serious. When we reach the pueblo, make yourself inconspicuous and keep an open ear. I will go to the tavern. If the sergeant has returned, he will show up there sooner or later."

The mute silently chuckled.

In the plaza, they tethered their mounts outside the posada. Diego watched Bernardo deftly wander near the cuartel, no one taking notice of his manservant's presence, before entering the establishment. The crowd was light in the hours following the lunchtime rush. He brushed specks of dust from his light blue suit and selected a corner table by the fireplace.

Maria delivered a bottle of wine and Diego settled in for a wait. Don Julio and Don Horacio drowsed on the far end of the sala. A few ranch hands grabbed a light meal at the bar while pair of travelers on route to San Luis Obispo played cards.

A newcomer Diego did not recognize occupied a table on the other side of the fireplace. Something about the way the man hunched over his mug, stealing glimpses in his direction, set the fox's instincts on alert. However, he did not have time to dwell on it.

The tavern door squeaked open and Sergeant Garcia strolled in. Hands resting on his belly, he surveyed the sala. "Don Diego, I am sorry for missing our dinner last night."

"Duty called, eh, Sergeant?"

"Sí, we were looking for Zorro."

"Is that rascal causing trouble again?" Diego motioned for the lancer to join him.

Garcia fetched a mug, claimed the seat opposite his host and smiled as Diego filled it full. "No, not yet. We hope to keep him from embarrassing the commandante."

Maria came by to take their orders. Diego marveled at the sergeant's appetite, which was more voracious that usual. When Garcia finished ordering, he inquired of the sergeant, "Why would Zorro do that?"

"It is what he always does. The commandante suspects Zorro will try to—" Garcia slammed his mug down and clasped his hand over his mouth.

"A military secret?"

"Not really. I suppose I can confide in you, Don Diego. After all, you are not a bandito and have no reason to steal the army's gold." Garcia gestured for his host to lean in closer. "Capitán Monastario arranged with the Presidio de Santa Barbara to have a shipment of funds loaded on a regular wagon scheduled to arrive tonight. This way, Zorro won't know it is coming and won't rob us."

Diego smothered a small laugh, but his amusement faded at the slight scraping sound to his side. The stranger hurried out of the tavern too quickly for his liking. Just how much did he overhear? Ready to make a quick excuse and follow the man, Diego's exit was interrupted by Maria delivering plates of hot food. He hoped Bernardo latched onto the dubious hombre.

* * *

Fine Toledo steel sang as it sliced the air, sunlight glittering off the carefully polished blade. Capitán Monastario lunged, imaging the point of his rapier piercing the heart of his enemy. Drawing back for his next move, a knock on the door interrupted his bout.

"Enter."

Licenciado Pina stepped into the office with a leather portfolio in hand. With his customary black suit and apprehensive demeanor, the lawyer never ceased to remind Monastario of an undertaker.

"I have some documents that require your attention, Capitán."

Monastario slid the sword in its sheath and returned it to its place on the wall hook. He motioned for his conspirator to sit as he leaned on the front of the desk, accepting the portfolio. Glancing through the papers, he tossed it aside with a wry smile. "These can wait."

Pina arched a curious eyebrow, but remained quiet.

"Something on your mind, Tomás?"

"You might say that, Capitán. I stopped by the cuartel last evening, but you were not here. We had not discussed your all night departure."

"Since when must I answer to you, Tomás? Do not forget who lines your pockets."

Pina bowed his head, his momentary spark of boldness stomped out. "It worried me. Since this Zorro arrived, I cannot help but feel he is leading us to the gallows. Everything goes wrong. Don Nacho reached Monterey and the trial—"

"Who rendered the verdict of not guilty?"

"Zorro had a sword to my back!"

"It was only a minor setback. Señor Zorro will be dead soon enough."

"You have a plan?"

"Naturally." Monastario folded his arms over his chest and smiled. "If all goes well, we shall have a grand, festive hanging tomorrow." At Pina's doubtful reaction, he shook his head. "Have faith, Tomás."

"Do you care to include me in the details?"

"Tonight, a humble wagon driven by humble citizens will make its way south to our pueblo. On this humble wagon is a chest of money for our garrison from headquarters in Santa Barbara. When Zorro attempts to steal it, we will be waiting."

"I do not like it." Pina bounced his palm on the chair's armrest. "What if he is successful?"

"There is nothing to worry about. Zorro does not know the drivers are really our men. Should he miraculously make off with the chest, he will find himself with a collection of rocks."

"You have been in the company of Sergeant Garcia too long, Capitán. This does not make any sense."

"Let me explain it in simple terms even you can understand, Tomás. A company of lancers will deliver the emergency funds I requested the day after tomorrow, as protocol dictates. Tonight, a wagon driven by a pair of well-armed soldiers dressed in plainclothes is on route to Los Angeles with a chest of rocks. Garcia is under the impression the men are simple peons and the chest is filled with gold."

"Is this the reason for all the correspondence and couriers?"

"Capitán Rendón and I devised this plot to lure Zorro. The fox fancies himself the Robin Hood of California. He would delight in stealing the army's reserve and distributing it to his supporters."

"Be careful with that analogy, Enrique." Pina snorted. "It makes you the Sheriff of Nottingham."

Monastario's eyes narrowed, but the let the comment slide without reprimand. Nothing would ruin his good mood; he knew that it was just a matter of hours until he captured his prey. "For Zorro to strike as he has, he must have eyes and ears all over this pueblo. I will use those eyes and ears against him."

"How? Zorro will get suspicious if you advertise a clandestine plan."

"Sergeant Garcia has a big mouth. He is certain to let this tidbit of information slip and it will find its way to that masked menace." Not to mention it permitted Monastario a chance to test his theory.

Zorro had to be a resident of the pueblo; his knowledge of the land was consistent with that of a niño who grew up exploring the hills. While all the men in the district had tried on the costume, one eluded donning the mask out of sheer buffoonery.

Diego de la Vega.

In addition, Zorro's first appearance coincided with de la Vega's early return from his studies. For a pacifist scholar whose only interests were poetry and philosophy, he repeatedly stuck his nose where it did not belong. De la Vega showed up everywhere—from the Mission San Gabriel to the Torres hacienda. He even lingered outside the cuartel when the soldiers returned covered in pitch.

Every time Zorro struck, Diego disappeared.

It could not be a coincidence.

One incident in particular gnawed at Monastario. When he searched the de la Vega hacienda for the wounded traitor Alejandro, he encountered Diego in his bedroom tending a fire, Garcia sound asleep in the bed. As Monastario drew his sword, Diego adopted a defensive position with the poker in his hand.

He paid no heed to it at the time, but in the days and weeks after, he played the scene over and over in his mind. It was the reflex of an exceptional swordsman.

Then there was the strange friendship between de la Vega and Garcia. What better way for the fox to discover the commandante's plans?

And that quip about pitching in! It galled Monastario! Diego de la Vega was Zorro. He was certain of it, but he needed to play his cards carefully, watching the don and calculating the right time to strike.

Perhaps he would drown his foe in the pitch lake instead of a dignified hanging.

Grinning, he registered Pina speaking. "What were you saying, Tomás?"

"What if other bandidos overhear Garcia's boasting?"

"We build a bigger gallows. They can hang beside Zorro."

"This is dangerous, Enrique."

"We will not catch Zorro by twiddling our thumbs or asking him please," Monastario quipped. He motioned for Pina to stand and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I saw Garcia crossing the plaza earlier. Go to the tavern and enjoy a good meal. Put it on my tab. While you are there, make note of who he interacts with."

After watching Pina exit the courtyard, Monastario shut the door and retrieved his sword. The swish of steel was pure music to his ears. He would forever savor running his prized blade through his enemy.

* * *

Diego paused with the fork at his lips to watch in sheer awe as Garcia shoveled food into his mouth. Half the plates were already empty. "Does the cuartel not feed you properly? It appears you have not eaten in a week."

"It seems like it," Garcia managed between forkfuls. When he polished off the meal, he leaned back in the chair with a satisfied ah. "I had a terrible night, Don Diego."

"It could not be that bad." The tavern door creaked open and Licenciado Pina entered. They exchanged polite nods as Pina selected a table adjacent to the one the stranger abandoned.

"We had nothing more than fruit, nuts, beans and dried meat yesterday. Then the commandante made us camp in Coldwater Canyon with the coyotes. Did you know it is haunted? And that the ghosts vowed to kill soldiers?"

"When I was a little boy, some of the Indian children at the mission told me stories about Kwinyiil Hallai. It is all just Kumeyaay legend, Sergeant. There are no such things as ghosts."

Garcia's brows knitted together. "What is this name you said?"

"Kwinyiil Hallai," Diego replied. "He was the Great Chief of the Kumeyaay Indians in this part of California. I believe it translates into Black Moon."

"That is a strange name. He must be the one Private Delgado wanted to tell me about. Of course, I informed him it was all nonsense and refused to listen."

Sipping his wine, Diego smiled behind the goblet.

"Did this Black Moon vow to kill all soldiers?"

"I will be happy to relate the story as it was told to me, if you wish. Even though an intelligent man like you does not believe in such superstitions, it is a fascinating tale."

"No, I do not think so, Don Diego." Garcia pushed his mug toward his host for a refill, a series of emotions playing out on his chubby face. "But then a good soldier should be familiar with the local legends. And I do not plan to camp in Coldwater Canyon again."

Diego chuckled. "Are you sure?" At the timid nod, he began. "According to oral history, Tuchaipai was the creator of the Kumeyaay tribe. He was poisoned by a vengeful frog and died. His soul became the moon. Tuchaipai had a twin brother named Yokomatis, the ruler of the underworld. Great Chief Kwinyiil Hallai was born beneath a moon the color of blood, thus the traits of both brothers flowed within him."

"So Black Moon was good and evil?"

"In a way," Diego said. "The Great Chief was kind to his people and loyal to his beliefs. When the Spaniards came along and forced the Kumeyaay to convert to Christianity, he refused. Lives were lost, instilling in him a raw hatred for soldiers and a taste for blood."

Garcia shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"His people were divided, so he sought answers from the spirits of his elders. Guided by Tuchaipai, he led a devoted band of his people north to live in peace. They did for many years until Spanish troops arrived to establish a new pueblo. Again, Great Chief Black Moon refused to turn his back on his beliefs. When some of his braves were murdered by soldiers as retribution, a vision of Yokomatis sent him on the warpath to quench his thirst for blood."

"In Coldwater Canyon?"

"Not at first. There were many smaller clashes until the final battle in the canyon. Even though the Kumeyaay were outnumbered, the war waged for many days and nights, with dozens of lives lost on both sides. On the last day, the Great Chief was killed. His braves retreated into the hills with his body, but the army regrouped."

Garcia scooted closer. "What happened then?"

"They followed and interrupted the death ceremony, slaying the surviving Kumeyaay and seizing Black Moon's body prior to his spirit passing into their heaven. Trapped between worlds, his soul wanders Coldwater Canyon vowing to forever spill the blood of his enemy."

"It is all very gruesome and very sad," Garcia said.

"Sí, in the Great Chief's quest to save his people, he cost them all their lives. It is said Black Moon's courage inspired the 1775 revolt in San Diego. Since the story is passed down from generation to generation, I am sure Private Delgado's version will vary from the one I am familiar with." Diego tossed his napkin on the table. "However, you have nothing to worry about, Sergeant, seeing as there are no such things as ghosts."

"Sí," Garcia said, not sounding entirely convinced. "You and I know ghosts do not exist, but are there legends on how to protect against Great Chief Black Moon? Merely to put the privates at ease, you know."

Diego laughed softly. "Not that I am aware of. If they do encounter the Great Chief, my suggestion is to run as fast as they can. I regret I must be leaving, Sergeant. Why do you not enjoy the rest of the wine, eh?"

The round face brightened. "Gracias, Don Diego."

On the porch, Diego scanned the plaza for Bernardo, but he was nowhere in sight. Just as he was about to set off in search, the mute circled the building, halted in his tracks and waved for the don to follow him. Alone in the stables, Bernardo launched into a flurry of signs with one hand. He tapped his cheek below his eyes and traced a line away from his face.

"You followed someone?"

Nodding, Bernardo pointed to the building behind them.

"Ah, you followed someone as they left the tavern. Good. Was he about your height with black hair, dusty clothes, a paunchy belly and a long moustache?" Diego laughed at the disbelieving look on his friend's face. "I hoped he would draw your attention; there was something odd about him."

Bernardo held up one finger, followed by a second.

"He met a compañero?"

Cupping a hand behind his ear, Bernardo leaned forward. His brow furrowed as he struggled to describe what he heard. A flash of fingers, wild arm movements and head scratching ensued. Finally, he rolled his hand over his stomach to indicate Sergeant Garcia.

"Slow down, Bernardo. You are running your words together. Perhaps I can simplify things. The newcomer and his amigo are going to rob a wagon tonight. This wagon carries army gold."

Nose crinkling in a pout, Bernardo propped a fist on his hip.

"There is no need to mope. Sergeant Garcia told me. It seems his loose lips saved me from some trouble. From the way that man eyed me, I think he might have been appraising his next target."

Not to be outshone by the fox's information gathering skills, Bernardo grasped a set of imaginary reins and bounced on his knees. He raised two fingers, closed them and then raised three.

"So they have yet another compañero."

Bernardo glanced around and traced a 'Z' in the air.

"Sí. For once, it appears Capitán Monastario and Zorro are on the same side." At the questioning look, Diego explained. "There is no telling what deviltry the commandante will stoop to in order to regain his gold if the bandidos are successful. And we wish no harm on the innocent driver."

Diego indicated the one hand Bernardo kept tucked beneath his jacket, as if hiding something. "What do you have there?"

Bernardo extracted the items, peering at the slim bundle of letters and the small package in his grasp before passing them to Diego. He explained how the blacksmith ushered him into his shop, entrusting the servant to deliver the contraband to his master.

The don shuffled through the correspondence. "Ah, it appears the stagecoach driver managed to smuggle some mail into the pueblo. Monastario's spies have not tampered with the wax seals." He examined the parcel adorned with his name. Curiosity getting the better of him, he tore the paper off and unfolded the attached note.

Diego's lips curled into a large smile as he read. "This is from Ricardo del Amo, an old friend of mine in San Francisco. He heard I returned to California and regrets he is unable to visit me personally, so he sends this gift to liven things up."

Bernardo quietly chuckled.

"Do not be so quick to laugh, my friend. Ricardo is a notorious practical joker." Diego tossed him the bundle of letters and set the box on a nearby crate. "This may very well blow up in our faces."

The mute scoffed at the idea.

"You do not believe me? For my last birthday before I departed for Spain, Ricardo sent me a gift that looked very much like this one. He had a master craftsman rig it with tension wires and such. When I opened the lid, a plume of blue powder hit me in the face. It took a week to wash off. I was afraid I would have to board the ship in San Diego looking that that."

Still chuckling, Bernardo nevertheless stepped rearward and motioned for Diego to proceed.

"Gracias," he said wryly. Standing as far from the box as possible, Diego removed the lid and instinctively ducked. No plumes of powder sprung forth. Inching closer, he laughed. "Firecrackers."

Bernardo moved to stand at his friend's side.

"It's a shame Diego did not receive this." At the mute's perplexed reaction, Diego winked. "It seems that rascal Zorro stole my present. These may just come in handy one evening."

The two men shared a hearty laugh prior to returning home.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Ghost of Coldwater Canyon**

**Chapter 3  
"The Ghost of Black Moon"**

Clad from head to toe in black, sword at his hip, Zorro followed the secret passages to the cave. Bernardo waited with a fully tacked Tornado. The mute hesitated in passing the reins.

"What is troubling you, my friend?"

Bernardo shrugged.

"You do not have a good feeling about this, eh?" The quick nod answered his question. "Considering how subdued Monastario has been since his pitch bath, I share your concerns. It is unlikely he has seen the errors of his ways and changed permanently. This may be a trick."

Smiling, Bernardo opened a saddlebag and indicated the pistol, pouch of gunpowder and extra balls. With a twinkle in his eye, he extracted the box of firecrackers.

"Ah, you made certain the fox is prepared for all contingencies." Zorro chuckled and patted his friend on the shoulder. Swinging onto the saddle, he saluted. "I hope to return shortly. Adiós."

Tornado's powerful hooves thundered over the terrain. Horse and rider galloped toward the northern stretches of El Camino Real. Zorro had a hunch the bandidos would strike near a bend in the road, where they could hide unseen until their victims approached.

The boom of a pistol shot spurred them on faster.

Rounding the bend, Zorro spied the bandidos descending on the wagon. The man from the tavern raced ahead of the team of horses and slowed them to a stop while his two compañeros pounced on the driver and his passenger. A crack of Zorro's whip seized the pistol from the leader's grasp.

"Aieee!" he cried, rubbing his tender wrist. "Jesús, Pablo, it's Zorro!"

The tallest of the trio struck the driver on the back of the skull using the butt of his firearm and spun toward the masked man. Another crack of the whip disarmed him. He leaped down from the wagon and scrambled to draw his sword.

In one fluid motion, Zorro slid from the saddle and unsheathed his rapier. He swept the cape under his arm with a flourish and flashed a white, toothy grin. Blades clashed under the moonlight.

"Mateo, help me!"

"Pablo," Mateo shouted to the bandido struggling with the passenger, "finish him off and grab the gold while we kill Zorro." Sword in hand, Mateo charged forward like a medieval knight in a jousting match.

Zorro parried Jesús' clumsy move and shoved him to the ground. Pivoting on his heel, he deflected Mateo's mounted attack, unseating the bandido and sending him sprawling to the dirt.

Seeing the passenger tussling with Pablo, Zorro climbed aboard the wagon and pressed the point of his blade to the hombre's chest. Pablo inched rearward until he fell off and landed on his butt.

"Are you all right, Señor?" Zorro asked the passenger.

Only he now looked down on a pistol.

"I am Corporal Guzman and you are under arrest, Señor Zorro."

Staring disbelieving for a moment at the reversal, the fox quickly recovered his senses. Discarding the rapier and raising his hands in surrender, he kicked the weapon from the corporal's grasp. Grunts sounded from behind. Zorro glimpsed Mateo and Jesús struggling to haul the heavy chest from the bed.

Guzman exploited his opponent's brief distraction and launched at the masked outlaw, dragging him onto the bench. Zorro dodged a blow aimed at his cheek and tossed the corporal onto Pablo, who was clambering to his feet. "Arrest him, Corporal. He wishes to steal your gold, not me."

The two foes grappled in the dirt.

Zorro reclaimed his sword and climbed over the bench when Mateo took aim. He turned and dived for the floorboard. The bullet struck the wood inches above his head, causing the team of horses to fidget. Next to him, the driver began to stir. "Sorry, Señor Soldier," he said as he rendered him unconscious.

As the rumble of approaching horse hooves shook the earth, Zorro raced against time. They had to belong to Monastario and his men. "More soldiers are on the way, Señores."

"You will not get my gold, Zorro," Mateo replied, grabbing the sword from Jesús. "Idiota, you are no match for him. I will take care of the fox while you get the chest."

Jumping over the bench, Zorro parried Mateo's attack, sending the weapon flying from the bandido's grip. He aimed the point at the leader's throat. "That is enough, Señores." Both men paled and swallowed hard. "Turn around." When they complied, he scratched a 'Z' into the seat of Mateo's trousers.

The bandit leader yelped in astonishment. Grasping his backside, he lost his balance and fell to the dirt. Jesús laughed. A swift kick to his rear sent him tumbling onto his compañero.

Zorro knelt to inspect the chest. That's when the report of a pistol shot filled the air. A spark glinted off the metal adornments just as a searing pain tore through his left side. Zorro stumbled off the wagon, barely keeping on his feet. Gritting his teeth, he looked up.

Monastario tossed the pistol aside, dismounted and drew his rapier in one swift motion.

Zorro narrowly recovered in time to deflect the first blow. Fine Toledo steel conversed, the attacks coming faster and harder. Each movement sent a new wave of pain coursing through his body.

"Lancers, surround him!" Monastario ordered, taking control of the tempo.

"Round up these bandidos, too," Guzman yelled over the ruckus.

The blades slid together, crashing at the hilts. Monastario grinned, his blue eyes twinkling in the moonlight. "You are not as crafty when you do not have the element of surprise." They pushed off, renewing the assault. "You will not escape me this time."

"I am sorry to disappoint you again, Capitán."

Zorro spied Private Sanchez sneaking up on his side. Knocking Monastario's blade out of line, he pivoted, catching the private unawares. He disarmed Sanchez and shoved him at Monastario.

"Out of my way, Baboso!"

Circling the wagon, Zorro snatched Mateo, who tried to elude the pair of lancers in pursuit by crawling between the vehicle's wheels, and pushed him toward the commandante. A shriek signaled the bandido was not as fortunate as Sanchez was in missing the tip of Monastario's rapier.

Zorro dodged a rifle aimed in his direction. The crack split the air.

"Estúpido!" Monastario cried a few steps behind him, also ducking the shot. "Shoot Zorro, not at me!"

"Sorry, mi Capitán," came the private's meek reply.

Opting for higher ground, Zorro climbed on the wagon bed. Three uniforms charged him, but he fought them off as the pain intensified. If he did not escape soon, he feared they might capture him. He surveyed his options. Sergeant Garcia and a half-dozen lancers remained mounted. On Monastario's order, they began surrounding the wagon.

Zorro slid onto the bench, gathering the reins. A quick snap sent the nervous team charging forward. The driver stirred awake. "My apologies again, Señor Soldier," Zorro said as he heaved the man out.

The lancers on horseback scurried out of his path. A sharp whistle brought Tornado galloping alongside the wagon as Monastario's voice reverberated too close for comfort.

"Garcia, do not let him get away!"

When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Monastario had climbed aboard and cautiously stepped toward his prey, mindful of his precarious balance.

"You heard the commandante. After Zorro!" Garcia shouted. "But do not shoot the commandante!"

With the lancers closing the distance, Zorro tossed the driver's discarded hat at the capitán. Using the diversion to his advantage, he lobbed the reins out front and leaped from the wagon onto Tornado. A pained grunt escaped his lips. The black steed hesitated under his weight.

Zorro dug his heels into the animal's sides, goading him to pick up speed. He could feel Garcia breathing down his neck. Thundering along El Camino Real, Zorro used the clouds drifting in front of the moon to advantage. The road forked with a smaller path leading to the right. At the blackest moment, he steered Tornado onto the path and behind a grouping of boulders.

In the momentary reprieve, he pressed his hand to the wound. As the light shone once more, he saw blood gleaming on the leather gloves. Tornado bobbed his head and kicked at the ground. Zorro patted the stallion on the neck, whispering for him to remain calm as the rumbling grew still on the other side of the boulders.

"He must be in there," Garcia said.

What a time for the sergeant to improve at tracking! Tornado bolted from the tenuous shelter.

"There he is! After him!"

As the chase carried on, Zorro struggled to lose his pursers. His side felt like it was on fire. While Tornado usually floated over the terrain smooth as silk, he sensed his master's discomfort and smelled his blood. The resulting gait was apprehensive, no matter how much Zorro compelled him. Each move of the horse's muscles beneath him sent further waves of pain shooting through his torso.

Since stopping to examine and dress the wound was not an option, the possibility of leaving a trail of blood right to the cave crossed his mind—that was if he could lose the lancers. Daring a glance back, he saw Garcia keeping up. Zorro silently swore.

When more clouds obscured the moonlight, he sought refuge in a grove. He breathed a sigh of relief when the lancers rumbled past. But his respite was short lived. Hoof beats closed in on the coppice.

"Zorro must be in the trees," Garcia said. "Surround him."

Zorro wanted to groan. When did the sergeant become so competent? It was as if Capitán Monastario indicated all of his hiding places on a map and forced Garcia to memorize them.

Rustling sounded in the darkness between the tree trunks. Tornado danced and Zorro rubbed his neck again. As the soldiers converged on his location, Zorro and his steed bolted from the coppice.

Garcia's mouth dropped open when they hurtled past him.

Zorro grinned and saluted. "Adiós, Sergeant."

A bewildered Garcia reached out and grabbed the fox's cape, nearly yanking Zorro off the saddle. Tornado reared high on his hind legs with a shrill neigh. Biting back the pain tearing through his chest, Zorro pitched his weight over his steed's neck, wrenching Garcia forward.

Stunned, the fabric slipped from the chubby fingers.

"He is getting away! After him!" Garcia bellowed.

Out on the open road, Zorro could not shake his pursuers. Only a few yards behind, the rumble of hooves echoed in his ears. Engaging the soldiers in an obstacle course was out of the question.

Tornado finally sensed his master's urgency and put some distance between them, but Zorro feared it was too little, too late. He didn't how much longer he could endure or how Tornado would continue to react in this agitated state. As he surveyed the surroundings, he had one slim chance. Coldwater Canyon was less than a mile away.

In the cover of darkness provided by the steep walls, he brought the steed to a stop. After carefully dismounting, he collected the whip and saddlebag. "Go home, Tornado. Fetch Bernardo."

He sought shelter in a nook of rocks hidden by scruffy brush. The soldiers slowed a stone throw's away. Garcia's voice bounced off the canyon walls. "Do you see where he went?"

Ortega shrugged. "No, Sergeant."

Tornado's hoof beats faded as a large silhouette moved deeper into the expanse.

"There he is, Sergeant," Ibarra said.

As they started to give chase, Zorro called out in a deep voice, "Alto." The word echoed in the chasm. "_Alto_… _Alto_… _Alto_…"

Garcia turned to face his men. "Who said that?"

"Not me," Ibarra replied.

"Wasn't me," Ortega added.

"It wasn't any of us, Sergeant." Delgado raised a shaky finger to point at the vastness beyond. "It came from deep in the canyon."

Garcia gulped, jumping in the saddle as a coyote howled. Just as the night before, glowing animal eyes stared at him from the shadows. "W—Who is there? _There_… _There_… _There_…"

"Go back. _Back_… _Back_… _Back_…"

"It is the ghost," Ibarra gasped.

"What ghost?" Sanchez whispered.

"The Ghost of the Great Chief," Delgado replied.

"Bah, there are no such things as ghosts," Ortega scoffed. "It is one of Zorro's tricks."

Garcia's teeth chattered. "That is what the commandante says, too."

Delgado shook his head. "I tell you it is the Ghost of the Great Chief."

"Listen to him," Ibarra pleaded. "Zorro is gone. We need to leave at once, too."

In spite of the cool, crisp air, sweat beaded on Garcia's forehead. Why was he always stuck with the difficult decisions? He did not want to die at the hands of the angry Indian, nor did he want to face an enraged commandante. Monastario might really transfer him to the middle of the tavern-less Mojave Desert this time if the ghost turned out to be Zorro. Garcia cleared his throat, but his voice creaked anyway. "Señor Black Moon?"

"Go back. _Back_… _Back_… _Back_… Death to soldiers. _Soldiers_… _Soldiers_… _Soldiers_…"

Garcia whimpered as Delgado and Ibarra cried in unison, "It is the Great Chief!"

The lancers remained frozen in terror. Zorro laughed softly and added further incentive for them to flee. He gathered a handful of pebbles from the ground. Using his whip, he gingerly lassoed the trunk of a rickety tree about eight feet away. All at once, he tossed the pebbles into a shrub across the way and tugged on the whip while rustling the leaves nearest him.

"There he is." Delgado pointed to the tree.

"No, he's over there," Ibarra said, pointing to the shrub.

A sob caught in Sanchez's throat. "There is another one!"

Zorro lobbed another handful of pebbles toward the troops.

"Madre de Dios, something moved near me," Ortega cried.

A macabre cackle pervaded the canyon. Birds took flight from their nests. Coyotes howled in protest. Mounts danced beneath their riders, who grew increasingly pale.

"Lancers, reverse course," Garcia ordered.

To ensure his pursuers did not return anytime soon, Zorro began lighting firecrackers and flinging them at the soldiers. Golden sparks illuminated the night. Loud pops reverberated off the walls.

Horses reared, unseating hapless masters.

"Retreat, lancers, retreat! The Great Chief called on his dead braves!" Garcia managed to stay in the saddle while leading the mad dash. "The Indians are attacking! Run for your lives!"

The rider-less men scrambled after the horses escaping for the safety of the open road. "Come back, estúpidos! Come back!" A few hopped behind fellow soldiers who kept astride their animals.

When silence settled in around him, Zorro examined his wound. He did the best he could with the limited supplies, pressing strips of his shirt to the gash, and prayed Tornado brought Bernardo. After what seemed an eternity, soft hoof beats reverberated in the distance. Zorro reached for the pistol, breathing a sigh of relief upon recognizing the horse and rider.

Bernardo slid from the saddle and knelt next to Zorro, his hands fluttering over his heart.

"I'm sorry. I did not mean to alarm you, but I could not escape the soldiers."

Zorro shifted so the faint moonlight glistened off the makeshift bandage. Bernardo's eyes widened as he pulled the fabric from the wound. A dozen questions followed in a blur of signs.

"It looks worse than it is, my friend, though I am not ashamed to admit it hurts." Zorro forced a small smile to hide a grimace as Bernardo prodded the tender area. "Monastario's bullet ricocheted off an iron chest and struck me. Near as I can tell, the bullet cut a deep line in the flesh between my ribs. There is nothing to remove."

Concern etched the mute's face.

"Do not worry. Monastario gave no indication of noticing his handiwork. We are safe on that front. After a few days of rest under your medical care, I should be fine. The trouble will arise from my father. Do you think he will be overly upset when his lazy son pulls a muscle climbing into a carriage?"

Bernardo shook his head in admonishment. With a frown, he fetched the medical supplies he collected in his rush from the cave. He set about cleaning the long, angry red gash, eliciting the occasional hiss from his patient. As he applied a salve, he indicated he would tend to it more carefully at home. Once he had it freshly bandaged, he helped Zorro to stand.

"How much time has elapsed since Tornado arrived in the cave?"

Shrugging, Bernardo held up one finger.

"An hour? That should be enough for the soldiers to reach the cuartel."

At the puzzled reaction, Zorro grinned. "If I know Monastario, he will not be happy when his lancers return fearing the vengeful ghost of Great Chief Black Moon. It would not surprise me if he marches them right back out here to prove there are no such things as ghosts. What do you say we have a little fun, eh?"

As Zorro explained the plan, Bernardo chuckled.

* * *

Sergeant Garcia and his lancers barreled into the safety of the cuartel at full gallop. "Close the gates! Close the gates! We are under attack!"

Monastario halted on the steps leading to his office, turned and approached them in the courtyard. "Where have you been? Where is Zorro?"

Garcia dismounted, his breathing labored. "I am afraid Zorro escaped, mi Commandante."

"How did that happen, Sergeant? You were right on his tail. You could almost reach out and grab him."

"I did," Garcia beamed before scratching his chin, "but he still got away. I cannot figure out how he did it. After that, we chased him until Black Moon attacked us in Coldwater Canyon. Then we had to retrieve some of the horses because they threw their riders and bolted during the barrage of shots and bombs."

Monastario blinked hard. "Black Moon? Shots and bombs? What are you talking about?"

Delgado stepped forward. "The ghost of the Great Chief tried to kill us all."

"Sí," Ibarra said, "we are lucky to be alive. He had hundreds of braves with him."

"The night lit up bright as day when they launched their weapons," Sanchez added.

Monastario growled. "Have you all been drinking?"

"Of course not, mi Capitán," Delgado replied. "Soldiers killed Great Chief Black Moon and all his people fifty years ago. His soul is trapped in Coldwater Canyon. He vowed to take the life of one soldier for each of his slain braves as penance to enter heaven."

"No, it is not that simple," Ibarra interjected. "Yes, there was a war and Black Moon and his braves were killed, but Yokomatis, the god of the Kumeyaay underworld, controls Black Moon's spirit. The Great Chief must do Yokomatis' bidding until Yokomatis grows tired of him. Only then will his spirit be free. That is why he vowed to kill soldiers—he blames them for his predicament."

"Really?" Garcia's eyes went wide. "I did not know that."

"Enough!" Monastario's nostrils flared and his fingers balled into fists at his sides. "Guard, open the gates. Private," he called to the lancer tending the stables, "Prepare my horse." He moved within an inch of Garcia's face. "I have had it with this nonsense. By your inane logic, Los Angeles is the most haunted pueblo on this earth."

"Maybe that is why it is the pueblo of angels. We need them to protect us."

"Since you are well acquainted with all these ghoulish creatures, we are going straight to Coldwater Canyon where you can introduce me to this Black Moon."

"We are?" Garcia croaked.

"We are."

"Sí, mi Capitán." Garcia's forehead crinkled as he fully took in his superior officer's appearance. Monastario's cheeks were adorned with small scratches and his uniform was coated in dirt. "May I inquire what happened to the commandante?"

"I had to jump from a runaway wagon upon which I landed in a shrub with sharp thorns. Very sharp thorns. That is what happened to me, Sergeant."

"Oh, that is terrible, mi Capitán. I have had to pluck thorns my backside. It is not fun."

Monastario stalked toward the stables in a huff to see what was taking so long. When he was out of earshot, Ibarra leaned in closer to the others and whispered, "If we die, it was nice knowing all of you." A round of solemn nods followed.

"There must be something we can do to protect against this Señor Black Moon," Sanchez said.

"There is nothing. We can only run as fast as our legs will carry us." Garcia rubbed his big belly and frowned. "For me, it is not fast enough. I will be Black Moon's first victim tonight."

"Sage," Ortega said simply.

Garcia looked at him. "Huh?"

"We need sage," Ortega clarified.

Ibarra snorted. "You don't believe in ghosts."

"Never mind what I believe," Ortega snapped. "I do not want to die. Wear a wreath of sage around your neck. It's what my grandmother used to tell me."

"No." Delgado shook his head. "That is an old wives' tale—no offense to your grandmother. Stand inside a circle drawn with the blood of a raven."

"The blood of a raven?" Garcia repeated. "That is rather gruesome."

Sanchez sighed. "Where are we going to get sage and raven's blood in the next few minutes?"

"Forget all that. Carry salt and drink lots of prickly pear juice." At the peculiar stares, Ibarra elaborated further. "If you see a ghost, throw salt at it. They dry up just like snails."

Garcia rubbed the nape of his neck. "What does the prickly pear juice do?"

"If the Great Chief does kill you, he cannot steal your soul for the underworld if you recently drank prickly pear juice," Ibarra replied.

"Silence!" Monastario glared at them from astride his white mare. "Do you even hear yourselves? This is the height of idiocy. I will prove to you superstitious old women once and for all there are no such things as ghosts. Zorro duped you again. Mount up!" He slid the pistol from its holster so they could all get a clear look at it. "I swear if I hear one more word of this nonsense, I will shoot all of you."

They rode to Coldwater Canyon without so much as a peep from the lancers.

Monastario slowed his horse near the mouth of the canyon. He glanced over his shoulder to discover his men dawdling at a considerable distance. Clasping a hand over his eyes, a growl catching in his throat, he waited for them to catch up. "Now, where did you encounter this ghost?"

Garcia scrutinized every shadow before pointing ahead. "A little further in." He followed Monastario into the darkness. "It was about here, mi Commandante."

"This is the site of your life and death clash with Black Moon? Nothing looks out of place."

"But, mi Commandante, he did try to kill us!"

Just then, a ghastly laugh echoed. "Soldiers. _Soldiers_… _Soldiers_… _Soldiers_… Die! _Die_… _Die_… _Die_…"

"It is the Great Chief," Garcia hollered. "Lancers, run for your lives!"

"It's Zorro, you fools." Monastario watched them scurry away, practically trampling one another in their haste. "Come back, you fools! Babosos! Idiotas! I will court marital you all for desertion!"

A single shot reverberated in the chasm. Monastario instinctively lunged from the saddle and crawled for cover behind a large rock. Muttering under his breath, he pushed his hat off his head, drew his pistol and peered over the top.

A series of loud, crackling booms filled the air. Bright flashes forced him to shield his eyes. His horse took off running. "Estúpido, get back here!"

When the blasts died, he crawled out into the open and heard a faint crunch with each footstep. He kicked at the remnants of stiff paper littering the ground. "Firecrackers."

Staring at the shadows, he called out, "I will make you pay for this, Zorro! _Zorro_… _Zorro_… _Zorro_…"

Another pistol shot echoed.

Monastario did not flinch, daring the masked menace to attack. Only an attack did not materialize. Searching for any indication of his enemy's whereabouts, he caught sight of a faint orange glow. It lured him deeper into the canyon. A small flame spread out, tracing a shape in the dirt clearing.

Movement in the shadows caused him to pause; he glimpsed a black figure vanishing on the horizon.

"Adiós, Capitán. _Capitán_… _Capitán_… _Capitán_…"

The orange glow intensified. When Monastario looked back, he was greeted with a large, flaming 'Z'.

**The End**

* * *

_A/N: Tuchaipai and Yokomatis are real figures in Kumeyaay mythology. Kwinyiil Hallai (Black Moon) and his plight are figments of my imagination. I do hope this fictional tale is respectful to Kumeyaay beliefs and traditions._

_This is my stab at the Disney ghost challenge. The required ingredients: a) A ghost story involving an Indian, b) Garcia chases an injured Zorro and comes close to catching him, and c) Zorro scares Garcia by using an echo in a canyon. Combine ingredients, shake (don't stir), serve and enjoy._

_Thank you for reading._


End file.
